Running with babu during the September international marathon

Running with babu during the September international marathon

The September international marathon was to be a merry-go-ground run, as we call it, within the workplace compound.  Runners were to go round and round the 1.3km circuit on a tarmac route that had been crafted by the MOE*.  It is a route we have run once before, during one of the monthly international runs of last year.  It is therefore familiar, but a nightmare to many runners.  Many avoid this run, as either boring or difficult.  It forces you to run through a half route section that is uphill followed by another half route section that is downhill.  The run has three stipulations that determines when it should end.  You can either drop out once you have had enough go-rounds or be forced to drop out when the clock hits 7pm, for a run that starts at 1630hrs.  The final option is that you can drop when you have achieved your desired run distance – 5k, 10k or 21k, provided this is done by or before 7pm.

*MOE - marathoners-of-expert, the committee that organizes marathons for the team

Like any other monthly international, this run was being held on the last Friday of September.  However, it was just three days to the run that a new development came up, forcing me to update the marathoners that I would be on an ‘early bird’ edition of the run, on a Thursday before the real Friday run.  I was therefore set to be on the same route a day prior, and was even ready for any early-birds that I had extended an invitation to.  I had already calculated that I needed to do 16 go rounds to achieve the 21k, actually, 17, since the 16 would fall slightly short of the 21k.

The weather was just perfect on this Thursday as I started my first circuit at 4.40pm.  There were no other early birds.  I would have to represent them all.  The sun was still high on the western side of the sky.  It was not that hot.  It had rained two nights before, and more rains were expected as per the weather forecast, hence the cloud cover kept the overhead heat contained.  I did a first ‘route survey’ run around the almost oval shape of the course, technical, hand shaped circuit.  The route was as expected – an initial half circuit of uphill run, then a final rolldown to the starting line.  The tarmac was as tough on the feet as was expected.  The sharp turns were a real test on the braking and turning systems of the body.  It was the route that I knew, no doubt, no changes.  With the survey done, I now proceeded to keep a count of the number of rounds done as I went round and round.

I needed 17, I desired 21, but I actually did 22, finishing just after the time stipulation.  After all, what was I to do, when the last circuit started just a few minutes to the finish time and I still had to finish it?  But why was I doing an early bird?....

I left the city on the timely Easy Coach bus to Busia on Friday morning.  I call it timely because it was a 6.45am bus and it did leave at 6.50am.  I am used to such a bus leaving about an hour after the scheduled time.  The fare had been hiked by almost 30%, from the usual 1400 to a new 1800.  However, seeing my people was a must, and I just had to do what I had to do, to make this happen.

I had deliberately booked an isle seat, somewhere mid-bus.  I did not want to suffer the sunshine that hits those seated by the windows.  Being positioned somehow near the exit was strategic, to enable me get out easily when I would alight somewhere midway between Kisumu and Busia.  The online booking system had anyway prevented me from booking a window seat, with the ‘reserved for ladies’ caveat affix on quite a number of seats that were therefore unbookable.  

“Discrimination,” I almost said as I hit the select seat button on the phone app and picked 4C instead.

I am known to be a loud-mouth in the corridors of marathoning, and I can easily be heard when over one kilometre away, should I be talking.  I enjoy a good talk, and I talk loud enough for the world to hear – that is what I am told, I do not know for sure, so let me tell it as I am told.  I therefore got into the bus just around 6.40am with this talkative spirit hovering around me.  The person sitting on 4D was already there, if anything, occupying both seats by spreading paraphernalia and stuff on both seats.

“Excuse me,” I said, as I pushed my bag into the overhead compartment and tried to take my seat.

“Oh,” she said shruggingly, and removed some clothing and stuff from my seat.

I took the seat, belted up and pushed two earphones into my ears.  I connected the wired earphones onto the phone and opened the music player app.  I was going classical today.  The app has the bad behaviour of arranging play files alphabetically, even if they are arranged otherwise on the storage system.  I was therefore going to start on Bach today.  Beethoven would be next.  I would have to really wait to reach Mozart, and probably not reach Wagner, but the journey was long.  That is why we left early anyway.  Going home is a full day event.

I proceeded to take a nap, more of a sleep, since I completely blacked out and did not even notice any landmark past Uthiru which just within Nairobi.  I would find myself jolted back to wakefulness at Gilgil weighbridge, some 120km out of Nairobi, where the imposing bumps must surely wake you up.  Additionally, the bus had to do a 360-turn to go to the other side of the road to be weighed, before returning to the road towards Nakuru.  I took advantage of the wakefulness to appreciate the environment briefly, as I glanced onto the phone screen.  It was just about nine.  I found myself taking another nap, this time a nap for sure, since I was in between sleep and sobriety, and could hazily notice the going-ons.

We finally took the first break at Nakuru at a petrol station at eleven.  Nakuru is a familiar town, sorry city, since it got its city status by charter just two-years ago, so let us be politically correct about Nakuru.  It was my major town when still working at Gilgil, being just 30km apart.  That was way back then in the past history.  It was now a stopover like any other.  I alighted and took the break like the rest of the passengers.  This was the first bus to get to this stopover station.  There was no other bus there, or did any bus stopover while we were there.  This place would have been full, if the bus was to arrived around one, when buses going both directs meet up during the break.

I should have resisted, but I did not.  I told myself that I was being polite.  This happened just as the bus left the stopover at about 11.30am.  Coincidentally, this was the second time such an offer was being made in a period of about a year, same bus company, different routes, despite ‘do not accept food from strangers’ warning slapped all over the waiting room.  On that first time, I was on the Nairobi-Malaba route, and ended up getting acquainted with a top seeded Kenyan tennis player.  I was on 4B on that occasion.  I ended up conversing from Nakuru to Eldy on that day.  Today was different.  I was on the Nairobi-Busia route and I was on 4C.

“Have a sandwich,” the lady at 4D unwrapped the cling film from some slices of bread with stuff in between and offered a bunch in my direction.

Instinct told me to decline, but being polite ruled the day, “Thanks,” I took a sandwich and returned the rest.

“I have already taken enough,” she protested, and kept her hand stretched in a manner of take-it-all-since-I-have-had-enough.

“Ok, but maybe for later,” I responded and put the remain ‘wich into a woven carrier bag and dipped it into the front seat pocket.

I had planned to re-nap, but now I had to deal with the sandwich first, then see if another sleep was possible.  It was also getting hotter, and my sleep deprivation had now waned after that long sleep from Nairobi to Nakuru.  I was likely going to remain sober for the rest of the trip.  

This was not meant to happen, but soon the stories just started.  How they started, I do not know exactly.

“Imagine mtoto wa colleague yangu died, just like that,” she started, sandwich munch going on.

“How comes?,” I wondered.

“Wakumbuka that see-ee-oh who was found dead?  Yule alikuwa killed by the girl?”

I started flashing through my Brain-GPT.  I soon remembered that entry, where the Finance Director, not CEO, of a famous Kenyan hospital had been found murdered, with footage showing some lady jumping out of his house compound through a fence.

We talked about that for some time, as the bus kept going.

“Ingekuwa coast, such thing hiwezi fanyika,” she volunteered.

“How so?,  Yani mambo ya coast ni tofauti?”

“N’me zalima na kuishi huko maisha yangu yote!,  Sisi twa respect culture sana.  Mtu kama huyo should have been married off by the traditions by now.  Hangeweza kuwa bado ana pick tu girls that he does not know”

“He was probably bewitched,” I put in a word in the FD’s defense.

“Mimi siamini hiyo mambo ya babu,” she stated, “Mimi ni mkristo.”

“But waganga are all over, they even advertise themselves.  Hujaona kibao cha mganga anayetibu vitu vilivyo potea?”

“I can tell you my friend, kuamini mambo ya babu ni imani potovu tu.  Kuna wakati mimi na mme wangu hatukuwa na kazi, tuka ambiwa twende kwa babu atusaidie.  Ng’o!  Nika kataa.  Lakini waona sasa, sisi sote wawili tuna kazi, hata watoto wetu wamepata kazi zao vizuri.  No need for such.”

“But people still go to them?,” I protested.

“True, watu wengi bado wana amini babu sana.  Hata huko pwani kuna wengi wanapenda kutembelea babu, lakini they suffer in the long run.”

She would go on to tell me real cases where blood sacrifices had led to the death of some of her close relatives who had engaged ‘babu’, and sacrificing family members was a requirement in order to attain the wealth that they needed.

“Kwanza watu wa bara ndio wengi huko pwani, wakija kuona babu.  Do not trust many of these land cases you see in Nairobi.  Nyingi zao zina saidiwa na babu, wa kule Mambasani.”

Time flew very fast, and we were soon done with the Kericho and Kisumu stopover breaks.  I knew that my destination was near the moment the bus crossed River Yala.  So, as I finally alighted at Dudi, informing her that her Ugunja stage would be about 30-minutes away, I slowly forced my tired legs across the tarmac and onto the market centre.  The tiredness being from those 29km of run round-and-round the September international marathon route.  The run was also still done in good time, achieving an average of 5.04min/km.  It was now just around 4.30pm and I knew that the real run should now be taking place back in Nairobi, some 450km away.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Oct. 7, 2023

The story of Annabel and running into a big bill

The story of Annabel and running into a big bill

Today I get out of my usual running stories and narrate a different kind of run.  This is the story of Annabel, a marathoner in my marathoners’ team.  She is one of the runners who has benefited from my free run lessons on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  I take any first time runner out for a run on these days.  It is the closest you get to run with the president, so to speak.

I get such students enrolled to the programme on and off.  It is difficult to get a regular one.  They either finally graduate to ‘real’ runners and abandon the student classes, or they just give up on the routine and drop out.  I however remain strong, steadfast and encouraged, whichever the outcome.  I would have done my part by being available to offer free hours on the road.

Ann turned out to be one of the drop outs.  She ran with me a few non-consistent Tuesdays over a lunch hour and once over an evening and she gave up.  She told me that running was probably not for her.  Gyming and hiking was more of her style.  She however remained in the marathoners team and kept running her mouth on various marathon discussions on the marathoners forum on WhatsApp or email.  She has hardly been on the run route this year.  She however continues to tell me how she shall be back ‘soon’.

I knew that Ann had left the city and headed for a work assignment out of town.  It must have been to Kisumu.  I usually try to keep tabs with the students, whether regular or not, and it was therefore last week that I got to hear from Ann after some time.  After a few marathon niceties the conversation moved from run to love, for the first time ever.
“I need some advice about…. Eh… I do not know how you shall take it,” she started on the other end of the line.
“Go ahead, the coach can take it.”
“I need some advice on love issues, yes, love.  I met someone!”

I do marathons and related subjects, but el oh vee ee is a new one for me, at least in advisory terms.
“I met an online boyfie, and I do not know what to do,” she said after some pause, for thought on what to say on an open line.

Of course, I had to get to the nitty gritty to even make sense of what was going on.  Which I did.  Ann told me that she has been on an online dating site and she had ‘finally’ met some guy that they blended with.  After a few exchanges of ‘likes’, they both decided to put keyboard to typing and sent messages to each other and were now an item.  
“He sent me a picture,” she said, “He is cute, I tell you!  But he has a daughter, but ni sawa tu.”
“A typical African man,” I said.
“Huta amini,” I heard excitement on the other end of the line, “Ni mzungu!  Ni mtu wa Yu Kei”
“Oh,” I absorbed the new news.

I learnt that they had now exchanged many pictures and she was starting to get to know the type of man she was getting involved in.
“You won’t believe,” she said, amidst apparent excitement, “He is even an engineer like you!”
“How long have you known each other for?”
“Imagine we met just last week, but it seems like we have known each other forever!,” she exclaimed in apparent excitement.


It was hardly three days later that Ann called me just around five on a Tuesday.  This would usually be the time to go for a students’ run in usual circumstances.
“Do you need run lessons while you are in Kisumu?,” I answered.
“Hapana, nina news.  Phillip anakuja Afrika next week!”
“What do you mean, ‘anakuja’!  You people are hardly one week into meeting each other!?”

She would narrate to me, in full excitement and some uncertainty, as to how Phillip the engineer had got an urgent mission to Africa to purchase some art pieces.  She told me that the engineer had a side hustle of dealing in art pieces – buying and selling to a ready market in the UK.  However, he was heading to South Africa to get these art items from an exhibition there, then was planning to pass by Kenya immediately after.  Phillip was coming to see her.  She was on top of the world.

This was quite an interesting twist to the love story.  A guy you meet online comes to see you hardly one week later!  How else can things turn out to be?  Good things happen to even those who do not expect.  The plan was therefore for Phillip to travel to South Africa then pass by the motherland before jetting back to the UK.

“What are his flight details to es aaa,” I asked, hoping this is something lovers would easily share.
“He did not say, he just said he is traveling with the daughter, Maggy.  That was all.”
“When is he expected in Kenya?”
“Imagine he did not say,” Ann responded, some apprehension quite evident in her voice, “He just shared a photo of Maggy and him on the plane.  The both looked so happy.  I already miss them.”
“He is traveling already?”
“Yes, I can see him and Maggy in the plane even as we speak.  I hope she will like me when we meet.”
“Maybe just send him a message so that he can confirm when he shall be coming to Kenya.  You can then plan on when to take some leave to see him and Maggy.”

This coming-to-Kenya event was really happening.  I had hoped that this whole thing was still not real, since I have my own reservation about virtual love.  I am a traditional person who believes in real physical and tangible love.  Something you see, touch and feel.  The new generation have virtual love – something you type, read and view.  

Phillip would later ask Annabel to recommend some hotels in Kenya for his stay and where they would finally meet.  She responded, recommending some coastal establishments.  I believe she picked on White Sands, Pride Inn and some other.  I was not keen anyway, telling her to pick whatever she picked since it would be for their own enjoyment – the man, the wife and the child.  I however advised her to still get that arrival date, since that would help her to also plan on how she was to get some time off her work at Kisumu and travel to the coast.
“Get that arrival date soon, before it is too late for you to get time off duty,” I had emphasized.

She told me that she had sent an email to that effect and a reminder a day later, but she was yet to get the response on dates.  She was also still waiting for that phone call from Phillip after she had given out her number, in exchange to what Phillip had given her, which for sure was a +44 prefix.  Phil was so far strictly an email person.  No WhatsApp, no SMS, no phone calls.


Two days ago, which is like a day since Phillip set foot in SA, Ann sent me a message on WhatsApp.  She attached a long message.  It was a message from Phillip.  He was saying that he had settled well in the S of A and was already shipping his precious art pieces back to the U of K.  The engineer was already salivating at the huge profit these pieces were bound to fetch.  He however mentioned that the daughter had woken up with some stomach upset and had gone for a medical checkup, but Phillip was confident that Maggy probably had just eaten something strange and would be alright in a few moments.  Ann called me about five minutes later on, after taking just enough time for me to absorb the contents of the forwarded email.
“Sasa imagine Maggy ni mgonjwa tena!?,” she sounded worried.
“Leo huna salamu!,” I brought her back to reality.
“We wacha hizo, coach,” she brushed me aside, “Tunaongea mambo ya Phillip na wewe unalete mambo ya salamu!”
“Sawa, lakini date ya kuja Kenya ulipewa?,” I asked, remembering this very discussion since three days ago.
“Hakuwa amejibu.”
She did not just want to say “Hajajibu”, choosing instead to give Phillip the benefit of the doubt.


It was later the same two days ago, while I was still in the office, ready to leave work for the day when my phone kept ringing and ringing.  I had decided to ignore any phone calls to give me time to just walk home, enjoy the walk home, and not take any new joys or troubles from anybody.  I finally answered.  It was Ann.  She was emotional and shouting.  She was losing it, if not having already lost it.
“Maggy ako admitted!”
“What?”
“Maggy ako admitted hosi!”
“But how, why, when, what?,” I blubbered back.
“I am confused, I do not know what to do!,” she said, obviously agitated.  She sounded like she was even crying.
“Why?”
“Hebu nisaidie na hiyo email nime forward kwako,” she disconnected.

Hey, today the coach has become Mr. Love.  The things I do for the marathoners!  Anyway, I checked my email messages, forgetting my walk home for a moment.  There was an email from Phillip alright, addressed to Phillip’s email.  I had noted that the email messages tended to be self-addressed.  I guessed maybe it was to protect the recipient’s privacy, but it was a unique way of communicating.  I am used to the old school way of just writing to someone’s email address as it is, not those BCC BS.  It was a mail of worry from Phillip.

“My darling wife,” he started, “I have some bad news.  Maggy’s condition has got worse all of a sudden and she is now admitted to the ICU of St. Elizabeth Hospital South Africa.  I have had to pay a deposit of $3,700 from a bill of $4,330.  That is the cash I had.  The hospital however insists on getting the balance before they can commence emergency treatment that shall save her life.”

There was a photo attached of some girl that looked like the one I had seen in Phillip and Maggy’s photos.  She was lying in some bed that looked like an ICU type hospital bed, with a teddy bear somewhere on the bed sheet.  It looked desperate.  I could now imagine why Ann was that emotional and had almost bursting my ear drums on the phone.  I was taken aback myself.  This seemed like a desperate medical situation.

“Honey, my soon to be wife,” the email continued, “Please I need your help now more than never before….”
“Oh, for crying out loud!,” I said to myself while in the office.  I already had the jitters….

“…. I had already spent all my cash on the art pieces that I had bought and shipped to UK by DHL and my credit card does not seem to work over here in this country.  I have even called my UK bank and they tell me that the card cannot be used here in SA and some other 16 African countries.  I am really stuck honey, my soon to be wife.  I really need your help…”
“Oh, for crying out loud!,” I cried out loud a second time!

“… Please help our daughter get her medical attention.  This is a real life and death emergency.  Please, please my darling wife to be, send me that $630 balance so that our daughter can survive.  It is about our daughter.  I shall pay you back, even double when I finally come to Kenya next week.  The life of the young girl, our daughter, is at stake at this moment.  Do you really love me?  Do you love Maggy?  Do you love us?  We hope you do.  Maggy is looking up to you to save her.  Just look at the attached picture to see how bad the situation is.  You can send it by Western Union to this address.  I have called everywhere….”

I could not even read any more.  I was glad that I was a sober third party in this.  Otherwise I would for sure have done anything myself if I was faced with this situation.  I could have sold my land to save that girl that I saw in that ICU bed.  I could have sold my own kidney to save Maggy!

I was sure that Annabel was not in any listening and reasoning position at the moment.  I therefore just sent her a short message service text….
“Ann, if you send that 65k it shall be the last time you ever see that money.  Goodnight”

So, why did this misfortune befall a good marathoner friend?  Did she even get my SMS before sending the 65k or she already did?  Did it really have to do with love?  Is this love?  Was Maggy really dying in an SA hospital and I had advised against saving her life?  Will I be responsible for what shall befall an innocent ten-year old girl?  Did I mess up Annabel’s real chance of getting the love of her life?  How will Ann survive all these when the real reality, whatever it is, finally dawns – whether I was wrong or right,?  Will she even remain in the marathoners team or I have now heard the last of her?  Is she even going to keep her job in Kisumu and she will call it all quits in the name of love?  Were there any telltale signs in this whole virtual romance that could have made Ann think twice?  

But how did Phillip even manage all these photos which I saw with my own eyes, including those photos inside an airplane with Maggy!  How about that photo of Maggy in ICU that I also surely saw?  I walked home asking myself all these many questions and more.  

Of course when I reached home I did a few email message trace-backs and photo properties investigations, after which many of my own questions on this saga were answered fully or partially.  I am however not a party to the heartbreak.  What matters are the questions and answers that Ann shall face and whether she shall have the willpower to survive the ordeal.  I shall not be surprised when Phillip finally comes to Kenya next week as promised.  Surely, I am lying!  Phillip shall never come to Kenya.  Why do I smell some West African country in all this drama?

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, July 15, 2022

Of being a doctor and the mathematics that did not add up – the Lakeside story

Of being a doctor and the mathematics that did not add up – the Lakeside story

I was ready for anything on this Wednesday as I prepared to travel to Kisumu.  My travel time had already been changed, I had already sent MPESA to a wrong number and my accommodation bookings had already been cancelled… twice.  The flight on a Bombardier dash 8 Q400 branded Jambojet left Nairobi’s JKIA at 1857hrs, instead of 1745hrs.  It took exactly 40-minutes to touchdown at Kisumu International.  It was already dark.  

The COVID19 port health declaration forms that we had been compelled to fill-in on the MOH portal while still at Nairobi, and had even got a QR code to show at the port of arrival, had come to naught.  No one asked for this QR code nor was there the usual COVID19 hype that had accompanied such a previous arrival.  No temperature checks, no hand sanitization, no MOH declarations and even no masks on most people.  Corona was no longer an issue.  The very corona that had now infected 253,082,160 people and led to the death of 5,114,568 on planet earth, with our Kenyan numbers being 254,297 and 5,316 respectively.

I got out of the terminal building and checked the Bolt taxi hailing app on my phone to confirm the cost of travel to Mamboleo area where I was going.  The fare was 420 on regular and 480 on comfort variants of the cabs.  I had a waiting time of 10 and 2 minutes respectively.  I however thought of getting a better deal from the already parked taxis at the outside parking lot that were already beckoning the travelers to take them up.  

One person approached me and offered to take me, “Chukua taxi twende.”

“Kama ni kama bei ya Bolt, basi ni sawa,” I told him.

“Kwani Bolt ni ngapi yawa?”

“Four-eighty.”

“Ai! Iyo awesi yawa!  Si wewe nalipa tu twelf-handred naenda na wewe msuri mpaka Mamboleo,” he responded.

“Bolt ni four-eighty na unataka nilipe twelve-hundred?”

I saw him beckon another person next behind him, “Bi ilos gi ja Narobi ni.  Tinge gi eight-hundred udhi”

The new person took over the negotiations, “Wachana ni hiyo twelf-handred.  Wewe lete tu one-thao tuende Mamboleo.”

“Four-eighty, au niende na Bolt!”

“Yawa jo Narobi gi!,” he turned back to talk to his colleague momentarily, then back to me, “Sawa, toa mia saba, tumalize hi mambo, si we najua hata gate ya airport sisi nalipa so moja!”

“Sawa, six-hundred, na utasimama kwa supermarket ninunue kitu.”

“Eh, yawa, po! Twende!,” he led me to a white taxi cab.

It was almost eight as we left the airport.  The driver just waved at the gateman as we exited and was not charged a dime.  We would then get onto Kakamega road where he pointed to a supermarket and stopped the car at the roadside.  He allowed me to alight, cross the road and get to that former Kondele Ukwala/Choppies supermarket to pick some items.  I had taken the risk of trusting the car and driver with my valuable left luggage as I went to the supermarket.  I relied on the expected honesty of the lakeside people and Gor Mahia their ancestor.  It worked, since I found the vehicle waiting for me with all my luggage intact, some ten minutes later.  This is not a gamble I would have taken in the city.  

We left Kondele and kept going on the Kakamega road.  It was not long before we hit a dead end after the railway crossing.  The road under construction had been blocked on the side that we had attempted to use.  I was about four-hundred metres from where I should have alighted.  I agreed to take a walk while the taxi driver navigated his way back.  I did not ask, nor get partial refund for this incomplete journey.  If anything, I took the drivers telephone number for a pickup on Sunday when I travel back to the city.

I got to the residence at about eight-thirty.  The gate was locked, and the gateman was nowhere to be seen.  His phone went unanswered.  I had to call the house owner to report that I was unable to get in.  It took about another ten minutes of waiting before Wasike came by.  I thanked him once again for having agreed to send me back the MPESA that I had erroneously sent to him the previous day.  He was soon struggling himself to open his own gate.

“Sasa nani alifunga gate and kuenda na kifunguo?,” he asked me.

I had no answer.

He soon ran out in his gumboots to the darkness of the retreating road and disappeared in the background.  I did not know where he had gone or what he was planning to do, nor did he tell me anything before he left.  I remained stuck outside the imposing gate, with the apartment block visible just a few metres inside the compound.  I would wait another fifteen minutes before I heard the gumboots running on the ground emerging from the darkness to join me at the well-lit gate.

“Tungoje tu, mtu atakuja fungulia sisi,” he updated me.

Finally, he shouted at someone on one of the upper houses on one of the apartment blocks to come down and open.  I finally got into the house tired and ready to take a shower and sleep.  I had bought some bread and milk already.  I had forgotten to get some sugar or beverage.  The tea intended for dinner was now seeming quite unlikely, until I found some tea bags and sugar left at the kitchen.  That is not all that I found in the kitchen.  Those scary giant roaches had multiplied since the last time I was here in June.  I counted over five big ones running on the floor in different directions when the kitchen light illuminated the room.  I thought nothing of them and continued with my life.

It was the very next day, Thursday, November 11 when we started the two-day capacity building workshop on processing data of the African languages of Swahili, Luhya and Dholuo.  A continuation of what had brought me here in June.  We were holding the meeting at the same Kisumu hotel.  The sessions went well and uninterrupted.  Last June was different, since our seminar came to a forced halt a day later when the Kenyan government had imposed an immediately cessation of movement in Western Kenyan and halted all gatherings with immediate.  That was then.  We were not even back to a 24-hour economy.  

We continued with our workshop, some plenary, some group works.  The group works would eventually lead to group discussions.

“Daktari, as I was saying, our Swahili data needs to be broken down into text spans for the machine to process,” George address me, in the group of four.

We were discussing how to process Swahili text to a format that would make it ready for machine learning tasks.

“Thank you, George, but I had told you before that I am not yet Daktari.  I am still working towards that.  Just call me WB,” I corrected him.  

I was just being academically correct.  I did not want that envious lot to see me pretending to have joined their club when I was not yet in it.

“Sawa WB, sorry for that,” he resumed, “So as I was telling you, Daktari, this formatting is what we need for machine learning!”

I accepted the situation and lived with it.

We would eventually take an evening break just after the evening tea.  Their serving of boiled bananas was quite something.  I had to get a second helping of this.

“Nikubalie niendelee,” I added some more to my plate, as I updated the catering staff, who was now clearing the used-up utensils and clearing the tables.

“Sawa,” he said jovially, “juzi kuna mtu alisema ati mtu inatakiwa akule mpaka achoke!”

“Mpaka ashibe au mpaka achoke?,” I reconfirmed.

“Mpaka achoke!”

My stay at the apartment would be uneventful, with roaches, mosquitoes, small black dot-sized insects running all over the kitchen and the unsightly paintworks that was peeling off especially in the washroom and kitchen.  I would however still stay here in future if the booking frustrations I went through is anything to go by.  The internet speed and the quiet ambiance compensates for any shortcomings of this one-bedroom apartment.  

Anyway, it was soon a Sunday, and I was already set to travel back to the city.  My newfound taxi man of last time had already dropped me at the Kisumu airport.  The check in process was quite fast, since I was seated at the departure lounge hardly ten minutes since getting to the port.  The airline kept the departure time, though the cost of travelling on a Sunday was almost double that of my inbound travel last time.  And we blame matatus for hiking fares when it rains!?

WWB, the Coach, Kisumu, Kenya, Nov. 14, 2021

When trouble follows you through and through – my Lake Victoria run experience

When trouble follows you through and through – my Lake Victoria run experience

“Hi, Is that Alvin?,” I talked out loud when the phone that had rang for almost a minute was finally picked.  I even though that I would not get an answer and was just about to tap on the cancel button on the cell.  It was just about seven in the evening on this Tuesday, November 9.

I was just from a 25k evening run, the first long run since the Stanchart virtual.  The heat and the hilly route has now won the duel, and I was once again just glad that I had managed to average a 5min 19sec.  I was still good with this.  It could have been worse.  The hilly terrain from Uthiru to Lower Kabete road via Kapenguria road, and eventually through the Uni farm past Mary Leakey is no easy feat.  I had almost collapsed with exhaustion after that 2hr 13min run.  It however just took a one-litre gulp of water laced with some 300ml of Fanta soda to get me back to normal.  It was now just about seven in the evening.

“Yes,… eh… whom did you want to talk to?,” a hesitant voice responded onto my ear.

“Is that Alvin?,” I had to reconfirm.  This is not what I expected.

“Ye…es…. But whom did you want to talk to?”

“Hi, I booked with you online two-days ago, and wanted to know how to get the keys tomorrow”

“What booking was that, are you sure it is me in Kisumu?”

“Yes, that is how I even got your number, from eh-ah-bee-en-bee,” I pronounced.

“But are you sure?”

Now, something strange was cooking over here.  I was already getting panic stricken.  Could there have been a mistake on the online booking system?  My worry was that my money had already been taken from credit card in advance.

“Yes, sure, I even paid already.  I booked your place.  The one you confirmed.  That is how I got your number.  Tomorrow is the day,” I said in quick succession.  Not know what was now relevant information or not.

“I am not sure, but I did not confirm any bookings.  I have nothing available.”

So, we went on to discuss how this issue came about.  His guess was that the system had auto-booked me within his information or consent.  He could have helped had he had places available, but it was not possible.  Now we had to discuss the inevitable topic of the refund process.  I was back to the situation that you would usually face with Uber taxi cancellation.  The ‘you cancel, no, you cancel’ exchange.  I asked him to cancel, and he said that he did not even know that he had a booking, so he advised that I cancel on my end.

I logged onto the booking site and tried cancelling.  I got a message that I would be charged for one-night for cancelling 24-hours to the accommodation date.  There was however another option of ‘let the host cancel’ in case it was them that had initiated the cancellation.  So, I once again called Alvin and informed him of what the online system was advising.  He agreed to try on his end and soon he was the one calling me to report that it was still not possible to cancel from his end.  He even sent me a WhatsApp screenshot of his system where the ‘cancel’ button was surely disabled.  

We were not stuck between cancelling from my end and losing 1 night charge of about $20, or him cancelling when he could not cancel anyway.  Meanwhile, my money was stuck somewhere ‘on the cloud’, but not with me.  This situation needed intervention.  I initiated a complain to the booking site and stated the issues that were facing the two of us.  There was an option of sending the complain by messaging and getting a response in 24-hours, or calling them and getting attention in 2-minutes.  I was not calling the US, so I sent a message and was ready to live with my 24-hours waiting period, as I waited for the refund.  Meanwhile, I still had to search for and get another place to book, with or without the refund.

But this was not the first time that I was facing a refund issue in less than 3-days.  Just three days ago, I had booked on the same site and got a confirmation, only for the host to send me a message the next day that the accommodation was not available.  I was about to ask him why he lists a property that is not available, which I actually did by messaging anyway, but for this occasion, I had been able to cancel successfully from my end.  He had once again taken me through ‘you cancel, no, you-cancel’ exchange.  I cancelled from my end and got the money almost immediately.  Maybe I was not yet on the 1-day to accommodation window.

I was just about to go to the online booking site once more to now try my luck at securing accommodation hardly 24-hours to my travel, when my cell rang.  There was a long number on the phone display, starting with a +1.  I knew that it was a USA number and I guessed that it must be the booking company calling.  And for sure it was, starting with the issue of the phone shall be recorded, a hearted apology, a promise of immediate refund, but not later than 24-hours and even a ‘small’ coupon to my account to console me.  They said that they had also called the host and agreed on the full refund to my account.  This was just too good to be true, but maybe my day was getting better.  I sighed and went back to the booking site ready to be frantic on what could be available at this last minute.

I however remembered the last place I had booked for my last stay in Kisumu hardly four months ago and recalled that I had even seen it still listed online.  I have ignored it this time around since it was a bit pricy than the two options now cancelled.  In desperation, I was now ready to pay more – pay any price.  I decided to call the host first just to confirm that it would be OK to book their place online, and if they would be kind enough to accept the booking upon presentation on their end.  The phone rang and timed out before being answered.

“I am roast!,” I kicked the underside of the desk where I was seated and shouted.  It was now dark.  I was still sweaty from the evening run.  I was yet to bath.  I was yet to get accommodation, less than 24-hours to my travel.

I momentarily saw the WhatsApp installation on my computer pop up.  I immediately recognized the icon on the message.  It was the host that I had only known as Diana sending a message.  Her marketing name was ‘Simply Diana apartments’.  Last time I had paid through the booking site, and hence did not have any other name of the host apart from the marketing name provided.  We exchanged a few messages, generally telling her that I was about to book her place if it was available at this last minute, and that she should accept the online application when she sees it.

“I can book you immediately, just send 1800 per night”

“But I was about to get online to book?,” I was about to say, but thought the better of it.

“Do I send to your usual number?”

“Yes”

Before I could even start the MPESA payment process, I saw other messages in quick succession.

“James Wasike of 07… shall receive you and show you the house”

I did not even think twice.  I was soon sending the big money to James, and I responded to the chat as such, “I have sent to James as instructed”

“No!,” she shouted on WhatsApp.  I did not know that you can send shouts in that messaging app.  Now I knew!

“That is the caretaker!!  You should have sent to me!!!  Ask him to send back!!!!,” another shout.

“For crying out loud!,” I typed in shout letters and was just about to send the text over, when I thought the better of it and deleted the message.  I instead retyped, “Let me try, but I can count the money lost, but let me try.”

Wasike answered the call almost on the first ring.  I explained to him that I intend to stay at Diana’s block, only that I had send the money to him instead of to her.  I think that the spirit of the good evening was with Wasike on this Tuesday, since he seemed to understand the situation faster that I thought he would.  I had imagined a protracted argument at best, and a switched-off phone at worst.  Instead, we were just talking about who would meet the MPESA sending charges.  I told him to deduct the charges from the amount he had received and send over whatever remained.

I did not wait long, since the spirit of the great Lake Victoria was surely still alive on Wasike as I got the full amount back.  He had not even deducted the charges that we had hassled over earlier.  I called him back to thank him for his quick action, before I sent back to him triple the sending charges that he had paid.  I soon resent the booking money to the right number and this also gave me the opportunity to get to know the name behind Simply Diana.  Thank you MPESA for being such a full disclosure payment system.

Now that I was not going to the booking site after all, I decided to catch up on emails, having been out of office for the whole day attending a fire marshals training.  I usually keep my inbox fairly well managed.  It therefore did not take me long to spot a mail that needed attention in the collection of the twenty or so unread messages.  This one was from Jambojet with the subject ‘Action needed or you risk cancellation’.  This sounded alarming enough to get me straight to it.  It was direct to the point.

“Your flight has been rescheduled from 5.45pm to 6.45pm. Click Accept or Cancel booking.  Respond immediately or you risk not traveling in case we do not hear from you soon.”

I was now facing a late arrival at the lakeside city, but there was no other option at the last minute, so I did accept the changed time and left that issue closed.

I walked home exhausted, planning to get to the house, watch the nine o’clock news, listen to loud rumba for an hour as I put together a travelling bag, think do dinner at some point before going to bed by ten-thirty.  This would enable me to sleep early enough and be well rested in readiness the upcoming travel, with the anticipated two days of full-day seminars that are known to drain the energy from the strongest of the strong.  I got to the house and switched on the main power just behind the door.  I have formed this habit of switching off the main power as I leave for duty in the morning.  It has the potential to conserves power from any leakages within the house and is also a safety consideration, but that is just me.

I was therefore in surprise when I switched on the living room light and no light came up.  The room remained dark.  That could only mean that there was no power for whatever reason.  I had paid my postpaid bill already and had just confirmed earlier on the day that I had a zero balance.  Disconnection was therefore out of the question unless…. 

“Oh, hech!”

I immediately knew that the place where I was staying was having one of those phase failure situations, where some houses have power while others have none.  It does rotate over collection of houses, though I tend to believe that my residence suffers more failures on the rotation than my neighbours.  And the way the failure works is so interesting.  The neighbours on both side of my residence would have power while I do not.  On those other rare occasions, I would have power while they do not.

With all plans now through into the darkness of no power, I found myself still writing the blog story on the laptop that was now about to run out of power being just past midnight.  Have I even taken dinner?  Have I even packed?  Can I even see in the dark?

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Nov. 10, 2021

Where runners still run at night, but you must face off with them

Where runners still run at night, but you must face off with them

It is now one week since I was at my shags – yes, my roots, my village, my home!  I had planned to stay for as long as I was loaded.  That plan lasted only two days.  I travelled from Eldoret to Kisumu, then from Kisumu to the local centre of Dudi.  This was on a Friday, the third.  I alighted and immediately removed my mask, since no one, repeat no one, was having a facemask.  The stage people had even joked that, “See a Nairobi person has alighted and brought corona to the village, that is why he has a facemask.  We hope he does not spread it to us who do not have it.”.  They said it loud enough for my benefit.  It worked.

I therefore alighted at Dudi which is in Siaya county.  The travel from Kisumu has just taken about 45-minutes.  My home is about four kilometres from Dudi.  I would get a motorbike from Dudi, just because I was loaded with some items that I had shopped from the local duka.  Otherwise, I would have just walked home and would have been there in about forty-minutes.  It was just about one kilometre from Dudi that I crossed counties from Siaya to Butere-Mumias.  This junction used to have the home of Grace Ogot, the late, and her huzy Prof. Bethwel Ogot.  That home is for sure in Western province.  

I remember the politics of those days, when Grace wanted to be the member of parliament for Gem, where Dudi is.  She got her brakes since it was claimed that she was a resident of the then Kakamega country, before it was hived off into Butere-Mumias.  It was stated that she could not represent people in a county where she did not even reside!  It took some time, but I observed that immaculate home at that junction vacated then completely fall into dilapidation as the Ogot couple moved out and set home in Gem.  Of course, Grace would later become the MP for Gem and serve in that role for two terms.

Those were just memories as I made the right turn on that junction.  Had I not made that right turn, then I would continue being in Siaya county as I went through to Muhaka market, which I know and had frequented, and the rest of the boundary villages, that are just across my home.  Well, I made the right turn and was in a different county.  One more kilometre and I almost got to my primary school.  Almost, since a new road now diverts to the left instead of the traditional road that would have gone past my primary school before the left turn after the primary.

I could see the ironsheet roofing of that long block of my primary.  This was a new block for sure.  This is the place where I studied from class three to eight.  That is the place that moulded me to the form that I have taken into my adulthood.  I remember when I reported for that class three interview, having just come from Kapsabet DEB.  My dad took me to that school in the afternoon on his bike.  I arrived at the school compound and was taken to the headteacher’s office.  

At that point in time the block housing all classes, with the staff room and HM’s office in the middle of it, was a long block with earthen walls and bare floor.  There were no doors or window structures in any of the rooms on that whole long train, apart from the HM’s office.  Each class just had holes on the whole to define windows and doors.  You could, and it happened, that students that got in and out of class through the windows.  It looked strange, having come from Kapsabet town where I had been in a proper classroom made of building blocks, with a set of glass windows and lockable doors.

I had aced that interview conducted at the HM’s office.  It was a verbal one, just on general issues, I believe probably Geography, languages and History.  It is a bit vivid many years later.  However, this I know for sure, that my dad was given a final warning as we left the school ready for my day 1 the next day, “Let not your son come to school with those shoes.  Shoes are for teachers.  Students come here barefoot.”

That warning was strange and I even thought it impossible, since Kapsabet DEB standards were still etched on my mind.

As sure as the sun rises on the East, I was woken up very early the next day to join my siblings into the morning run to school.  And surely all of us were bare foot as we walked the three or so kilometres to school.  I was not just running to school, but I had with me a load of cow dung, wrapped with banana leaves or carried on a cut piece of banana bark.  I was also hauling a piece of euphorbia branch.  

It was a welcome like no other.  The dung would be mixed with the soil that the girls had carried in the same process, to make the material for use in smearing the floor and walls of all classes.  This smearing activity was to be done every Friday from ten to lunch break.  The classes would be hopefully dry after the afternoon ready for the upper classes who were taking afternoon classes.  The boys would use the euphorbia to beef up the fence on the same Friday as the girls were doing the smearing.

I have never been in culture shock!  There was nothing like this in Kapsabet.  In Kapsabet I would be a smartly dressed child walking to school across the Kenya Prisons compound, though I had to take the long route round, since the school gate was on the other side of the shared fence.  But here at Luanda Doho primary school?  None of that!  This was a different ball game.  I would have easily given up my schooling in that third year, but something strange happened that changed all that.  I became that ‘clever boy from Nairobi’.  That title remained as I led my class through the many years of toil and would five years later break an academic record that stands solid to this day, many years later.  That is a story for another day.

Back to the present, and on this Friday, just know that I was passing by next to my primary school on my right, which I could clearly see as the motorbike roared on.  I was at my homestead around one, having been riding for just about ten minutes.  My Diriko village never ceases to amaze me, many years since I knew it.  Despite civilization that has been going on forever, that place remains the greenest place that I have ever seen.  It is still full of trees, grass, live fences and all manner of greenery.  The green carpet is occasionally broken by the presence of some footpath, some house, some farmland that has been harvested and is now bare.  However, there is plenty of grass going around and it grows upto the edges of the house.  The air was fresh and inviting as I got to the homestead.  

My home is perched in a gentle hill.  There is a mango tree that generally marks the centre of the compound.  The mango tree under which I spend most of the daylight hours, doing nothing, just listening to FM radio on the phone and chewing through a long stave of sugarcane.  I could see across the valley to the other side, which is Siaya country by administration.  

I could also still see the other side of the other valley.  That side has the Manyulia market and the road to Butere.  When days were good, over twenty years ago, the same Manyulia market was the place to get to first, if you intended to take the train that stopped at Namasoli halt, just a stone throw from that market.  The train would take you to Butere ‘end of railway line’ on one end, or take you on the opposite direction to Kisumu, then Nairobi, then Mombasa.

I was so relaxed under the shade that I did not even realize how soon the rain would creep in on this Friday.  It did creep in, but saying that would be lying.  Our rain is seen across the valley from many miles as it progressively comes over towards Diriko village.  You can see it whiten the greenery on the horizon as it makes its way from Shiatsala towards Manyulia.  You observe it as it makes gains, whitening the background and enveloping that greenery, until it finally hits home.  And hitting home it does.  

When the rain pounds on the ironsheets of the houses on the compound, you can hear the sound loud and clear.  There are usually no ceiling boards on our home houses.  That means that the start of the rain also marks the end of any talking for those gathered in any house.  You cannot converse when it rains.  The drumming on the roof is so loud that you just survive the ear-shattering sound that persists until the rain subsides.  I am no stranger to this and so the rain welcomed me on this Friday just about six in the evening and I liked the ear-shatter as it lasted.  It however did not persist for long.  It was just a short drizzle.

Finally, I was done with dinner, and I was off to my house.  My house is located about one-hundred metres from the main house, just next to the entrance gate area.  In Luhya tradition, a boy should build his own house as early as he has been initiated, this should be at around fourteen years, just about the time one finishes primary school.  Once you are past initiation, you are expected to setup your own house and start ‘being a man’.  

And building a house is not just a saying.  It is the full works – get the posts, cut the rafters, cut the grass and then carry the posts, grass and rafters to the building site.  After that, dig the holes, plant the posts, trim their tops, hammer the roof structure, rafter the whole structure on the walls and roof, fill in the ‘baked’ soil on the walls and do the thatching... and start your life in that structure.

From then on, you should not bother your mother with any requests for food.  You should provide your own food by getting someone to cook for you, read, marry.  If you delay this inevitable of getting your person to cook for you, then your options are to stick to your father’s side at mealtimes, so that you benefit from the food that your mother(s) provide to your father, or alternatively, sort yourself out.  You could plead with your mother to make food for you, but there were no guarantees.  She would likely tell you to get your own cooker, on your face.  You therefore had to go slow on food issues or learn to become your father’s friend.  

The other methods of survival once you have your house, also known as Lisimba, or simba, or lion in English, is to start visiting your sisters-in-law and be lucky to get some food from them.  That is why in western culture the ‘shemeji’ is an important person.  Of course, the husbands of the shemeji’s do not take it very lightly when you frequent their houses.  They start hinting that you should be giving them a ‘shemeji’ too.  Believe me, after you build a house in western Kenya culture, then it is now survival for the fittest!

That is not all.  When you get a house you are on your own and you must survive, both for your own sake, and for the sake of the whole homestead.  The man, or men if you are lucky, protect the homestead.  They deal with the dangers that may arise.  It is their job to keep everyone safe.  The houses at our homesteads usually do not have washrooms within the structures.  You have to get out of the house to obey that nature call at the external shared washroom or the natural greenery, depending the type of call.  

Despite all dangers being manifested in the night, be it wild animals, fear of the unknown, fear for the sake of fear, or even bad elements, the men must be ready to get out in the pitch dark of the night and face the darkness.  The women and children are exempt from this compulsory going out business, and they are allowed to relieve themselves in containers in the house if it means so, or, to wake up the men in the house to take them out for the call.

I was therefore alone in my big three-bedroom house that was unusually dark and quiet.  The house does not yet have power supply, though the wiring has been done and just awaits supply.  I therefore got into the house with my kerosene lantern and would soon prepare to sleep, after blowing it out.  It was hardly nine.  I am used to sleeping the next day.  This was just too early.  This was going to be an interesting night.  It was cold due to lack of a ceiling cover, and the environment was generally cold anyway.  It was eerie quiet.  Even a leaf dropping onto the ironsheet roof, from the nearby other mango tree just next to my house, made a loud cling on the iron, based on the circumstances.

Anyway, I forced myself to bed and soothed myself to sleep by listening to FM radio on my phone.  At some point I did fall asleep and somehow switched off the radio.  The night remained quiet.  The ironsheet roof remained the cover of the house.  I slept.  Something woke me up at some point in the night.  I thought I heard something brush through the ironsheets.  It was as brief as a five second thing.  It stopped.  I was still thinking about it when a bird, for sure, flew into the darkness of the house.  

I could then hear it flapping its wings and it circled round and round and round inside the house, probably flying on the roof area.  If it had got into the house through the gap between the walls and the iroonsheet roof, then that bird would have a hard time making its way out of the pitch darkness of the house and out to the external world.  And it was true.  The bird moved round and round and round.  There was no way of getting it out.  It would have to get out on its own, when its time was right.  I ignored it, left it to do its rounds, and got back to sleep.

The call of nature came knocking at some point in the dark quiet night.  The men must go out.  That was the law.  I so I had to get out.  With torch at hand and slasher on the other, I quietly groped through the darkness of the house to trace the doors, opening them one at a time, in the darkness, trying to keep the opening sound as soundless as possible.  

I had a torch alright, but I have survived this type of life for many years and know the use of a torch at such a time.  You need to keep your eyes accustomed to the dark when you wake up and get out.  A torch beam would spoil your otherwise good visibility in the night.  You keep the torch off, you let your eyes adjust to the invisibility of the darkness.  The torch is an emergency tool, just like the weapon.  It is not to be used, until and unless it is necessary.

I unbolted the outer door and was out of the house, in the pitch darkness.  It was dark alright.  There was zero visibility.  I for sure could not see anything in the night.  I was soon back to the house to continue the rest of the sleep until morning.  Saturday is church day the compound was quiet for most day, as I continued taking my stop under the main mango tree.  Later that day my sister-in-law lamented over some night runner, or runners, who have refused to give her house any peace by their persistent walks in the night.  

That under-the-mango-tree rest also brought a moment of reflection.  I had already spent almost three thousand shillings by the evening of the second day.  And the news that I had landed had not yet done its proper rounds.  I knew that I would be badly broke when the locality gets to know that their son from the city was at the village.  

I just had to save myself by leaving when Sunday dawned, traversing the same greenery back to Dudi, then back to Kisumu.  Of course, that night bird had disturbed my night for a second time, and those strange sounds like roof sheets being brushed by a stick still persisted on this second night.  To cap it all, I still had to go out in the pitch dark of Saturday night, but was still unlucky not to shine the spotlight on some bad guy, maybe next time.

Since slipping away from shags on September 5, I have done three long runs, with the last one being having been just today at this altitude of 2100m here in Eldoret.  Today’s run, just like the rest of them has been difficult to handle.  My legs feel strained and the cross-country route through the partly muddy trails do not help much.  I average 5.30min per kilometre and I feel like hell on earth after every run!  

I long to go back to Nairobi, where the altitude is a bit favourable at 1800m.  I long to be back to the city, where corona is still real and facemasks have some semblance of being effective.  Nonetheless, corona remains real and those in denial should quickly get back to the reality of the situation.  When you have 225,736,297 global infections* and 4,648,356 deaths, with 243,725 and 4,906 respectively, being the numbers for Kenya, then you need no more convincing that corona is a real deal.

*source: worldometers website

WWB, the Coach, Eldoret, Kenya, Sep. 13, 2021

Running into corona lockdown… and surviving the hit

Running into corona lockdown… and surviving the hit

Plans

It was after two months of planning that our group of workshop organizers became confident that the event was ready for execution.  We had debated over all things workshop, including venue, number of days, timetables, plans A, plans B and even C.  We were surely ready and had covered our bases well.  But plan B would become the default one after our funding source could not materialize on the scheduled planned date of June 10.  We instead settled for June 17 and this was cast on stone.

I started my Kisumu trip in high spirits on June 16, one day to the start of the two-day workshop.  This was the best meeting that I had organized in a long time.  In fact, I have not arranged any meeting since the advent of corona in Kenya in March 2020.  It was a welcome relief to finally be able to interact with folks, albeit at a distance, the ‘social-distance’ distance.

I left Uthiru at 11.30am for the 3pm flight.  I have calculated a two-hour travel to Jomo Kenyatta international airport.  This would give me plenty of time for the check-in, which is not a big hustle when on a local travel.  I would have left at 10.30am if I was on an international sojourn.  And that is why local is always better.

“Tutumie Kikuyu bypass,” the Uber taxi driver mentioned as we edged our way slowly through the matatus at Uthiru road towards the Waiyaki highway.

“Bora tufike,” I urged him on.  

I was sure that that was probably the better option of getting towards Mombasa road at this time of the day, considering the gridlocked city centre traffic that had been made worse by the construction of the overhead express way that runs from JKIA towards ABC near Nairobi School, over a 25km road section.

The southern bypass was a smooth sail, until we were about to hit Mombasa road, when the driver once again volunteered to bypass a direct entry onto Mombasa road at Ole Sereni by instead taking a diversion to ICD.

“Najua unashangaa tuko wapi,” the driver commented, noting my looking around as we moved on.

For sure I had not been to this road before.  It was not long before I saw the sign for Inland Container Depot.  I could even see the SGR train with wagons parked somewhere in the background of a vast compound.

At some point we rejoined Mombasa road at Cabanas, and survived a short jam before diverting left to the airport.  It is almost two years since I was here.

“Bado watu hushuka kwa gate?”

“Kushuka ni lazima,” he confirmed.

I knew that I would be passing through the pedestrian luggage and body scanner, while the vehicle and driver would be passing through a full vehicle x-ray.  I have leant to go to that pedestrian scanner with the least of metallic items.  I therefore left all my bags, keys and coins in the vehicle.  I even removed the headphones and left them on the seat.  I wanted to pass through that scanner clean, and clean I did pass, without a beep whatsoever.

I got into the taxi on the other side of the gate, joining other people who had been through their security checks as we looked around to recognize and get back to our vehicles.  It was not long before I was dropped at Terminal 1D.

“Naeza lipa na MPESA.  Ni sawa?”

“Sawa, lakini tumia hii number nyingine,” he started, as I fumbled with thumbing the phone screen.  I had taken to using the new MPESA app, and it has issues, especially when the internet is not stable.  It was soon stable, and I got the number to pay the 1,750 to.

“Nimepata,” he said, even as I heard the double-beep on his phone.

I picked my two bags from the backseat where I was seating and disembarked.  I walked across the road and was soon at the terminal building.  Getting through the security check and luggage scanners was the start of my processing.  I thought that domestic travel was less stringent, but I was wrong.  The checks were just as thorough.  I joined the queue of about three other passengers and got my boarding pass.  I went through a second security check and luggage scan before getting to the waiting area.  It was hardly one.  I still had upto 1445 to depart, with board scheduled to start at 1415.

I was impressed by the clean and well laid out waiting area, which was quite a thing for a facility managed by a public institution.  I settled in on an empty seat, on the largely empty waiting lounge.  I was planning to catch up on email, rearrange my conference material, since I had a first meeting on the same evening, then probably listen to some music for the hour of waiting.

I found a socket on a connection point next to my seat and plugged in the laptop.  I switched the computer on and it started.  I was logged in and ready to start my work.  The airport wifi seemed to be secured, which was not the normal.  I have previously used it for free, after agreeing to TOS.  I now had a locked wifi at a public terminal.  I was tempted to ask the KCAA employees that occasionally passed by, in their characteristic yellow pullovers, but I thought the better of it, and decided to just use my phone’s hotspot.

I was just starting to setup the phone hotspot when the laptop went off.  I had fully charged it before commencing the journey and hence knew that the charge could not be the issue.  I guessed that it must have gone to sleep mode due to the five minutes or so of inactivity.  It would usually not go off when connected to power, and this was a strange behaviour.  I started by checking on the power source and confirmed that for sure that socket was not connected to the wall power.  The cable at the back of that socket was just hanging concealed next to a wall.

“Very funny!,” I remarked, as how crafty the airport operators were.  Making us believe there was power in the socket yet the damn thing was not even powered.

I was now convinced that the computer must have timed out and gone to sleep mode.  I therefore tried to press the power button and… and nothing happened!  The thing remained silent.  It was completely off.  I however know this sign.  It had already happened twice in the last two weeks, where the system just goes off and goes dead.  The only way to revive it, as explained by our ICT, was to open the underside casing and reset the battery.  And that underside cover has many concealed screws and delicate plastic interlocks.  It is something that you do not wanna do.

When it happened the first time I believed that it was a bad one-off incident.  When it happened a second time last week I knew that there was something amiss with this machine that is hardly a year old.  The gurus had told me that they had upgraded the BIOS and that the problem was now gone forever.  I did not know how the BIOS had anything to do with the system shutting down to the level of disabling the battery, and I doubted as much, but they know better.

Now the system was dying a third time when I was preparing for a trip with no way of getting it fixed.  I was headed to another city where I was to be for the rest of the week.  I was now out of information, with even some conference material now concealed dead inside the laptop.

“This is just great!,” I cried out loud!

It did not take long to overcome my denial and be back to acceptance of my situation.  I was even glad that I would be off the computer for some time.  Maybe I could even take the time to just enjoy my music and look around.

“Wait a minute!,” I almost jumped out of my seat, as I touched my neck and realized that I did not have my headphones.  I did not recall having them with me as I went through the two baggage scanners.  Though it was possible.  I remember especially at the second scanner, where my bags had stayed in that machine for so long until I wondered if they were even clean.  The two bags had eventually came out without a question.  If my phones had been left on the conveyor, then that second scanner must be the culprit.  I still could not believe that I had left them in the scanner, though I remained convinced that that was unlikely.

I was just starting my walk toward that direction of the security check when I decided to first confirm with the taxi person, just in case he had seen them.

“Hebu ngoja niangalie,” he said and paused, in a manner of looking around.  It was like forever before he responded, “Imagine ziko tu hapo backseat penye ulikuwa umekaa.”

“OK, sawa, wacha nizichukue Sato nikirudi”

“Utanitafuta kwa hiyo namba yangu.”

There I was, with about one more hour before boarding and now with no computer and no music.  I went through another denial before I accepted that this was just not my day.  Nonetheless, I still managed to enjoy my solitude at the lounge as I waited for the boarding at gate 2.  The call to board came at about 1430, and it was not until 1455 that we took off.  The ride on the Bombardier dash 8 Q400 was smoother than I thought.  I had underrated the stability and performance of the 78-seater that was full to capacity, but it did not disappoint.  It flew quite smoothly… and fast, since it was not long before the landing announcement was made, and we surely touched down 40-minutes later.

The city

The city of Kisumu was not as hot as I have come to know it to be.  I even kept my jacket on as the slight chill crept in.  I checked out and soon got a Bolt taxi, which was to take me to Mamboleo, where I was to find out where my residential apartment was.  I had booked in on Airbnb and was a bit apprehensive.  I had previously booked an unknown residence in Mombasa using another app, Booking, but it had turned out well.  I even paid after checking in on that app.  However, Airbnb was different.  You prepay and face the consequences of cancellation or dislike of the residence with your money gone.  

While I paid Booking in Kenya shillings upon check in, Airbnb charged me in USD in advance.  My credit card was even blocked for a while due to ‘suspicious transaction to unrecognized merchant in dollar currency’, courtesy my bank.  Of course, paying in dollars has that additional pain of conversion to Kenya shillings which the banks take advantage of, and charge an extra 10% in currency exchange advantage to themselves.  I knew that with an exchange rate averaging 108 to the dollar, the bank was going to milk me dry with an exchange rate of about 120 to the dollar for this transaction.  That was last week.  I was now at the present moment.  I was relying on the good nature of vendors on cyberspace to make this accommodation work.  My money was gone and I now hoped that I would get the goods.

The taxi dropped me near a landmark called Makuti.  I started walking toward the direction where the residence was meant to be, based on a map that I had seen online.  It did not take long before I got to a crossroad.  From there, all buildings looked like the place I was to be going to.  I was lost, hardly five minutes into my stroll in the unknown geography.  The owner of the apartment had been kind enough to provide the number of the caretaker, in response to my request for information while I was still in the Bolt taxi.

With two bags in hand, I called the number that was provided.

“Mano ng’a?  Iwacho nade?,” I heard a faint blubber on the other end of the line.

“Si hapo ni kwa nyumba za Dina apartments?”

“Mimi apana jua wewe nani.  Nani nasema we napiga hii namba yangu yawa!”

“Nili ambiwa wewe in caretaker wa nyumba penye nakuja kuishi”

“Ohhhhh, sasa mimi najua hiyo mambo sasa.  Wewe nakuja tu hapo mbele tu.  Kuja tu mpaka taona tu nyumba”

For crying out loud!  I am already at a cross road and lost!

It would take more negotiations and more phone calls before I finally got the direction and had to be stranded in the middle of the bad road for over five-minutes waiting for the caretaker to trace and show me the way.  It was not far from where I was, just like two rows of houses away.  He opened the door of House 2 on the ground floor of a compound that had one story block, with two floors.  He then handed me the key.

I got in and looked around.  It was just past 4.30pm.  The evening meeting in town was scheduled for six.  I wanted to settled down, take a shower, then be ready for the travel to town.  I wanted to catch up with the half-hour news headlines on AJZ and approached the TV table to try switch it on.  It was not responding, despite pressing the remote-control buttons.  A quick observation revealed to me that the power extender was not connected, and the TV power cable affixed to that extender was therefore not powered.

I would soon notice that the power extender had burnt and disconnected cables just next to the plug.  I sent a message about this to the owner on WhatsApp and also called the caretaker.  The caretaker came in, looked at the extender cable, confirmed that it was surely spoilt, and left without a word.  I was just about to give up on him, when the metallic door was knocked once more and the caretaker and some other young lady matched in.  They both looked at the extender and confirmed that it was not working, just as I had told them.  Is it that they did not believe me?  The cable was visibly burnt and cut at the plug!  They both left soon after without much solution.

It was hardly five minutes later when there was another knock on the door.

“That was fast!,” I commented, as I opened the door and walked back in, even without looking back.

I did not hear any footsteps following me.  They had decided not to get in?  I walked back to the door and looked outside.  I saw a hand stretched in my direction with a brownish plastic cup.  On the other side of the hand of the body of a young man, with another hand holding a phone.  He continued talking.  Balancing the phone with one hand on one ear, while holding the cup in my direction.

Now I am convinced that men cannot do two things at a time.

“Manze huyo dem alini con chapaa.  Nilimtumia ka empesa ata anichapie, lakini manze… hebu ngoja…,” he took a pause and looked at me while shaking the cup.

“Si unishow ka-salt kiasi”

Ni-what?

Luckily, I had already surveyed the house and had noted that there was some salt already in the upper kitchen cabinet.  I got the jar from the kitchen and came back with a spoon.  I scooped a tablespoonful and poured into the cup.  The person had resumed his con-story on the phone with whoever-was-on-the-other-side-of-the-phone.  He paused again and whispered in my direction, “Ongeza kiasi”

I would soon shower and momentarily leave for town without a replacement power extender adaptor.  I was back around nine after the preparatory meeting.  The caretaker would join me as I opened the door to hand over a new power extension cable.  I thought that I would make up for lost time by watching Euro 2000 football matches live on the big 43-inch TV.  But that was not to be, since the IPTV did not have a leeway of getting onto an online site that was screening the matches.  What happened to good old satellite TV where one watches Supersport channels to see real games?  Now guests are left to their devices to look through websites that show nothing?  What a waste of 43-inches!  I went to bed early and disappointed.

Good ending

Thursday was the first day of the seminar at the middle of Kisumu city.  The seminar well so well despite our misgivings and feeling of not having prepared enough, a feeling that most organizers will always have at most workshop.  I was now thanking the participants for a good day that was now culminating into a good ending, as we plan for yet another day to finalize our business.  I had just asked the team of twenty or so to stand up for the final benediction when I was called aside by one of the organizers in my team.  I left the participants on standing and waiting mode, and excused myself from the podium section.

Soon the six coordinators were in deep discussion at a side with hardly audible whispers.  Soon the prayer would be done and all participants asked to remain seated for five minutes to be updated on a new development.  And it was new indeed.  The city of Kisumu, and many other western Kenya counties had just been locked down starting Friday, June 19.  In a presidential directive and subsequently on Government gazette aka the law, Kisumu and others would be on curfew from seven in the evening to four in the morning.  This was in response to the new strain (strain delta) of COVID19 that had hit the western part of Kenya hard.  

But that was not why the participants were seated and waiting for five minutes.  All in-person meetings had been banned with immediate effect, among other stringent containment measures, that included travel in and out of the locked down zone being ‘discouraged’ according to official presidential speech, and ‘banned’, according to several sources that were interpreting the speech.  It was the painful announcement that was quickly crafted by the six of us that brought the participants to their senses at the end of the five minutes of waiting.  The seminar was being cut short.  All had to clear and go back to their homes the next day, instead of Saturday.  There was chatter around the hall as participants were caught off guard.  What had to be done had to be done.

I was back to the apartment by seven.  I was just preparing to take a shower after watching the news on the IPTV, where I had realized that I had to get a Youtube stream first, when the house become dark momentarily.  There was a power fail.  However, the outside was a bit too bright.  I thought that maybe it was just my place without power and hence had to walk out all the way to the gate of the one block compound.  I saw the security lights on the walls of the block being on, and confirmed with the caretaker who was also on security duties at the gate, that the security lights were solar powered and for sure there was a blackout.

The power was back at about eight.  I was just heading for the shower when I saw a giant roach on the floor.  The apartment has so far proved to be worthy of a stay.  It was one bedroom with a well-equipped kitchen.  A gas-electric cooker was ready and waiting.  A microwave oven, electric jug and toaster graced the kitchen counters on one side.  The other side of the kitchen had a fridge behind the kitchen door, then the washing sink, then drying rack.  The cooker was directly in front of the kitchen door.  On top of the cooker was an overhang cabinet, where that salt container of yesterday was kept.

Opposite the kitchen was a handwashing area then the door to the shower and toilet as one room.  Adjoining the shower was the bedroom with its door facing the sitting room.  The sitting room was simply furnished and tasty.  A large couch covered almost one whole side of the wall, facing the TV table, which was on the wall of the bedroom.  The middle of the room had a small coffee table.  One side of the sitting room had the kitchen, with a sliding window to pass through anything between kitchen and living room.  On the other side of the room, to the left while seated on the couch, was a metallic door that had been welded shut and a window next to it.

The bedroom had a wardrobe that had three hangers, a graying bedcover that was once-upon-a-time a white one, and an extra black pillow.  Below the single shelf on the wardrobe was an iron box placed on the floor.  Next to it was a mosquito net that was not in use, since the bed that covered most of the room already had four metallic stands with a mosquito net strewn around it.  One end of the room had a window.

The house was generally in good condition and must have been newish.  My guess was that it had not existed for more than a year or two.  The finishing however left a lot to be desired, such as paint specs on the sink, exposed tile junctions, door fixtures that left gaps between wall and frame, and flaked paint areas on the walls.  These were however minor issues to interfere with one’s stay.  However, that giant roach could disturb your peace.  I saw it crawling like a big rat towards the lower part of the TV cabinet.  I was just about to through a slipper in its direction when the power went off again.

I was stuck in the dark a second time in hardly thirty minutes, with the lucky roach taking the opportunity to slip away in the dark to an unknown place.  I had previously attempted to take a shower twice, and each one had been curtailed by failed power.  This time I was not taking any more chances.  I was jumping into that shower the moment the first second of electricity comes back to the block.  That is exactly what I did at about nine when power was back, though that did not give me any advantage since the power stayed stable from that point on.

Kafu

I was in town early on Friday to assist the organizers clear the participants, a process that took most morning, ending at lunch break when participants took their lunch as they departed.  I remained at the hotel for another two hours to assist in the accounting, before finally leaving for home at four.  I took a walk from Mamboleo to Kondele at about five, just to stretch my legs and buy some provisions.  I walked back the three kilometres just before the curfew kicked in.

The night was uneventful and the Saturday was quiet as I prepared to leave the city of Kisumu to travel back to the other city.  I was still watching an Axel F movie from a flash disk when someone knocked the metallic door.  It was hardly eleven.  Did they want to see me out already?  The checkout was one for crying out loud!  I went to the door and opened it.  It was the caretaker.

“Mi nakuja ochukue ndoo”

“Ndoo?”

“Ndio, sisi anaweka ndoo hapa jokon”

“Sawa, ingia uangalie”

He got into the kitchen, ransacked the cabinets and extracted a bucket from under the kitchen sink.

The two hours of relaxion were soon gone and I had to leave.  I once again walked to Kondele after checking out of the apartment, then another kilometer ahead to Kibuye.  From there I took a taxi to the airport ready for the evening flight back to the city.  At the airport we were directed to an online link for filling-in traveler details for contact tracing.  This COVID thing that had caused the lockdown and ‘kafu’ was surely a serious thing.  With 179,238,929 infections and 3,881,434 deaths globally, and 179,075 infections and 3,456 deaths locally*, this COVID thing was rearing its ugly head again and any initiative to stop it on its track was worth the effort.

*source: worldometers website

However, efforts such as filling in an online form in Kisumu and being stuck in Nairobi airport because ‘the system’ did not update the record is not worthwhile.  The authorities should test and confirm that a system works before they blame travelers for the failure of the system.  Maybe they should have just resorted to use of paper forms as we did when we got to Kisumu on Wednesday.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Sunday, June 20, 2021